


Short-lived insanity (I thought)

by koshitsu_kamira



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6198121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koshitsu_kamira/pseuds/koshitsu_kamira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junmyeon’s button-up is damp, the wet patch gradually spreading further.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Short-lived insanity (I thought)

**Author's Note:**

> 지코 - 사랑이었다 (Feat. 루나 of f(x))

Junmyeon always feels incredibly flustered, ashamed even, when an acquaintance asks him a seemingly innocent question regarding Jongdae - his self-professed soulmate, incidentally a person, who possibly means a lot more than assumed by outsiders - to which he can offer no valid answers, either because he simply doesn’t know or has never considered discussing the subject touched upon.

Whenever these episodes occur -  
“Jongdae looked sad today, did he mention why?”  
“Really? He seemed fine just now…” -  
Junmyeon will quietly acknowledge his failure again, nothing unusual, disappointment part of his daily routine, a reminder that he has let down someone precious, treasured.

Frankly, he still can’t decide what aspect in particular makes him a bad friend, the worst in his opinion, despite people telling him otherwise, citing how he often brightens their day almost instantly, bringing up the times he has helped, granted invaluable assistance - the kind comments do make him relieved for a short instance, like binge eating chocolate and ice cream would, until he stumbles into a small hint suggesting he may have missed a vital clue during his weekly pity party.

Sometimes Junmyeon wonders if he’s the one in the wrong, incapable of reading between the lines, falling short in properly decoding messages broadcasted towards him; he would ponder over the silences, the omitted elements while blanketed in the dark, the very absence of light, a state filled with meaning, substance waiting to be uncovered; there, he would dissect sentences, nonchalant remarks masking hurt, agitation. He imagines, presumes that only assembling a puzzle, thousand glass shards the pieces, would be a comparable activity since thoughts, speculations especially, are pernicious, devastating creatures, a subtle poison gradually suffocating the mind, warping perception, distorting the slippery grasp on reality - ironically enough, the remedy, the solution, he reckoned, is quite straightforward, yet unattainable: a honest response dispersing the haze.

It is also a great possibility though, that he’s fretting over insignificant trifles, stress, delusions finally having caught up with him. He ought to sleep more, seven hours just don’t suffice.

Both Junmyeon and Jongdae are deemed rather busy, diligent individuals, as he is perpetually stuck behind a computer desk, perusing tax tables, financial reports, auditing books 9 AM to 7 PM, meanwhile Jongdae is constantly holed up at the studio, supervising the creative process of producing new tracks, editing lyrics, coaching singers - consequently they meet up rarely, primarily keeping in touch through various chatting applications, an inferior substitute, still better than nothing. Written communication, plenty stickers included is the main form sustained which Jongdae has been persistently advocating for years, having recounted several factors supporting his opinion; therefore at this point Junmyeon is extremely reluctant to bring up video or phone calls, seeing how he would be shot down immediately - “Too inconvenient, hyung,” “I’m about to keel over my sofa, not a pretty sight,” and “I look like processed meat, I don’t wish to scar you for a life” - so after countless refusals he has given up.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have thrown in the towel - another proof underlining his incompetence as a friend - however, limits do exist, Junmyeon no exception to the rule, his pride, confidence such fragile elements, facets he can’t afford to have bruised, crushed under oblivious ignorance, callous rejections, hence he has walked away, abandoning the issue, the conflict Jongdae has easily disregarded. “He’s alright, anyway,” shrugs Junmyeon each time he’s tempted anew, the notion tickling, concern plaguing his consciousness unceasingly, his worrywart nature amplifying, inflating the apprehensions: he’s infamously prone to nagging, fussing, characteristics he invariably suppresses, attempts curbing, fully aware his attention is likely conceived as overbearing, annoying, unwelcome.

Accordingly Junmyeon hates prying, delving into private matters without prior consent, similarly, he detests gossip, hearsay, diligently taking small talk with the proverbial grain of salt, the principle granting him the privilege of independence, customary freedom that enables careful deliberation, thorough inspection concerning every situation he has encountered, experienced. Granted his neat system isn’t perfect, foolproof at all: SNS content for instance fits nowhere, inducing massive headaches as he chances upon a fresh tweet, a random comment, a garden-variety post which stirs his, euphemistically speaking, protective instincts, along with hesitation, doubt for he can’t decide if he should reflect on the subject - Is it a casual outburst or a sign implicating severe repercussion? Does he, a mere follower, a social network friend have the right, implied permission to butt in? - his brain struggling to compute a suitable resolution, unsuccessful thus far.

His efforts thwarted, notably in cases entailing Jongdae and his private Twitter account, morose, dispirited tweets galore; he has contemplated consulting the topic at an offline, expert platform - convenient, owing to his company organizing IT fairs, workshops each Spring - and surely friends, once he gets over the initial embarrassment (admittedly, Junmyeon follows exclusively news agencies, Reuters, Bloomberg Business, Yonhap, Financial Times, possessing no desire, interest in furthering his knowledge of SNS protocol) and finds a person who wouldn’t judge, suspect his intentions. Sadly, he can count all those people on a single hand, even though his circle is fairly wide, extensive, his friends possessing diverse backgrounds: a number he has met in the army, having shared the same barracks, detestable drill sergeants; a separate group from his university days, jaded business majors and fatigued engineering students, then come colleagues, plus the small clutter of miscellaneous associates he ran into frequently, nameless till they introduced themselves - “My name is Jongdae, I’ve bought your coffee, don’t worry about the queue. A tall latte, double espresso, soy milk, right?”

Junmyeon has learnt long ago that walls standing on pretenses, facades are insurmountable, near indestructible. The sense of rightness, potent fear and false conceptions entwined, blinds us in ways absolute, the cliff we step off invisible, unseen, the abyss imperceptible.

On Thursdays Jongdae has home office hours which usually provide the perfect opportunity to drop by his flat, organize impromptu lunch dates, drag the younger man outside, granted the actual process requires lots of patience, cajoling and sweet talking on Junmyeon’s behalf - he doesn’t mind the trouble if that means an entire afternoon, evening spent goofing around downtown, dodging passersby in the subway. Ideal Thursday nights are Jongdae clinging to him, as if he was a simple handrail, snickering at the grimaces contorting the elder’s features when the occasional passenger steps on his toes or a frazzled businessman elbows him in the ribs; Junmyeon can stand, endure the rare discomfort, the soreness inevitably setting in next morning for boyish smiles, startled laughter and amused, soft glances, hoping the fondness choking him is not obvious, tangible.

He is wholly unsuspecting as the elevator stops with a thud on the sixteenth floor, doors sliding open to reveal a black lacquered door, copper name plate adorning the surface, positioned under a Venetian brass knocker that invariably makes Junmyeon crack up, flattered by the gesture - the ornament, his gift from Italy, was supposed to be a practical joke on Jongdae, who insisted he resembled lions, not kittens - poodles were out of the question, notwithstanding the curly mop he sported at the time.

Ringing the bell gains Junmyeon no answer, and he frowns, baffled, scrolling through the previous texts he has sent, the interim reigned by an ominous, static silence, coming up with nothing which would indicate why Jongdae is reluctant to let him inside - he is certain the other is at home for Junmyeon can hear the refuse water rushing overhead, the plumbing enmeshed, casted in the echoing concrete ceiling. Following the faint, illusive noises hinting at the occupant loitering within the apartment, a slight racket emerges - a glass tumbling down the table, pens dropping, plastic containers falling - then the lock clicks open, the crack widening, Jongdae’s back, shoulder blades pressing against worn fabric, disappearing from his sight, the younger man bolting away swiftly, an apparition receding. Junmyeon enters cautiously, unsure whether his presence is welcome, a bit perplexed, disconcerted, steps careful, tentative, scanning the flat warily, but discounting the typical clutter associated with bachelor pads, the place is in order, even if the prevailing gloom unsettles him, setting off alarms as he looks for Jongdae, scanning the rooms he passes, ultimately finding the younger in the cramped, one square meter of a balcony.

“Jongdae,” he asks, “are you okay?”

“Do you feel sick? I’m sorry for coming unannounced, I could go if you’re busy?”

“Jongdae?”

When the other man turns to face him, the first aspect Junmyeon notices is the tear tracks glistening on sallow cheeks, the second is perhaps chapped, bitten lips, details of misery, sorrow, components he has not detected on a face which radiates solely joy, mirth in his memories - he wants to believe this creature of desolation is not his Jongdae, simply a fleeting mirage that would perish once the nightmare, dusk gives way to daylight.

“You should leave,” says Jongdae, gaze sharp, tone edged, a honed blade, “You shouldn’t trouble yourself with the concerned act, I know you don’t care anyway. You are just like the rest.”

The words remain uncomprehended in the moment while Junmyeon hopes, pretends still, that he would awaken, rouse to mundane reality; staring ahead blankly, breath suspended in his ribcage, he braces himself for the heartache, the dejection which would permeate, numb his senses, till the air rushes past him, shadows revealing the packed ground, the bottom of the chasm.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, stumbling back, swallowing the hurt climbing up his throat, “I’m not a very good friend, right?” chuckling, self-deprecating, Junmyeon bows, ninety degrees, “I apologize for bothering you. It will not happen again,” he sputters, slurring the syllables, the world flashing crimson, white - he’s angry, crestfallen, ready to flee, forget this afternoon, although his hands bleed, scarred from the pieces of glass he has gathered. He starts toward the exit, leaving the tangerines bought downstairs on the kitchen counter - Jongdae likes the tangy sweetness of citrus - shuts the door carefully, and absentmindedly waits for the escalator which is kept idling above, deducing which chores he should finish today in the meantime: grocery, laundry, dusting the shelves, he could possibly finish the report due next Friday.

He can’t afford to cry, break down in public. Pride is a fickle, mercurial sensation, yet he shouldn’t complain as it allows him to display a measure of composure, dignity.

Really, he should have known better.

Getting tired of watching his own forlorn reflection in the mirror conveniently placed beside the elevator, he stalks to the fire escape gate, pushing the heavy metal hatch ajar, when a bony hand, fingers lithe, seemingly brittle, clamps on his wrist, exerting ample force to pull him back into the corridor, stopping him from leaving - Junmyeon decides he’s too exhausted, worn to fight off the arms cradling him fearfully.

Jongdae’s hair smells musty, traces of lime and cedar wood lingering behind his ears, rumpled t-shirt standard fabric softener scented, a gentle floral, powdery mixture; his arms circled around Junmyeon’s torso shake minutely, cool from the wintry air, a touch halting, timid; fatigued sighs lingering, coalescing on his nape - he stays motionless, placid in the embrace, letting his body yield, chest collapsing forth.

“I’m sorry,” babbles Jongdae, jaw working over his collarbones, “I didn’t mean it, Junmyeon, please, stay? We can go out too, I’ll treat you, the meal is on me,” the hold tightens, crushing him against the younger’s skinny frame, “I honestly mean it, we should also visit the dessert café! I promise, just give me a few minutes to freshen up.”

Junmyeon’s button-up is damp, the wet patch gradually spreading further.

“Don’t go, please.”

Junmyeon has thousands of half sentences, replies befitting the situation, all serrated edges, barbed tips, thorns and jagged fragments rattling in his skull which should provide an easy passage out, a clean farewell; instead he maps out protruding ribs, vertebrae; his palms rests above narrow hips, sigh lost in an exhale as pain thrums, simmers under his skin, bruises hidden, out of view.

“Alright,” Junmyeon utters, mind emptied, eyes closed.

Something cracks, fractures inaudible in the distance.


End file.
